


The Adventure Of The Crooked Man (1888)

by Cerdic519



Series: Elementary 221B [94]
Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Detectives, Alternate Universe - Victorian, Bank Robbery, Crimes & Criminals, Destiel - Freeform, F/M, Johnlock - Freeform, London, M/M, Treasure Hunting
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-05-25
Updated: 2017-05-25
Packaged: 2018-11-04 19:00:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,148
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10997007
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cerdic519/pseuds/Cerdic519
Summary: Sherlock returns to work after a much-needed rest, and a child's bedtime story is instrumental in causing a respectable lady to suffer a shock in the middle of a busy restaurant. And John is definitely not jealous, whatever anyone says, so there!





	The Adventure Of The Crooked Man (1888)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [majesticduxk](https://archiveofourown.org/users/majesticduxk/gifts).



As things turned out, Sherlock and I were to stay on Futility Island for a further two weeks after the conclusion to our ‘preternatural’ case, the only gap being my day excursion across the country to Bristol to meet Mr. Kevin Tran. I had prepared a whole raft of arguments as to why we should prolong our stay on the island (i.e. why Sherlock should take a much-needed break), but typically he forestalled me by suggesting staying on himself. The sight of him happily knitting away in the light-room gladdened my heart, and he looked noticeably better when we did finally leave the island, towards the end of April.

Of course, it could not last. I had taken the opportunity offered by the Bristol trip to telegraph Mrs. Harvelle that she could undertake her annual spring-clean of our rooms in Baker Street, and we arrived back to find the place dusted to within half an inch of its life. Fortunately she had not meddled with Sherlock’s writing-table, where the notes that I kept organized for him remained almost untouched, though her maids had somehow managed to dust them. 

We had precisely one evening of peace and quiet before our next, incredibly strange case broke upon us. Sergeant Henriksen called round early the morning after our return, to report that Mr. Alistair Campbell was indeed facing a long jail sentence, and that his only real regret was that we no longer transported felons like him to Australia. 

“Though I doubt that he will live long enough to breathe free air again”, Henriksen said, sinking his bulk into a fireside chair. “No, it is another case that brings me here this morning.”

“One you have just started?” Sherlock asked. The policeman shook his head.

“You could say this one has been going for about four years”, he said mysteriously.

Too late, I remembered. Damnation, it was Mrs. Harvelle's chocolate cake day. We really should have delayed our return another couple of days!

And why was Sherlock giving me that look again?

+~+~+

“I don’t know if even you will be able to make head nor tail of this”, the policeman said, scratching his bald head. “It started four years ago with a Mr. Nicholas Branson. He was a terrifying fellow; when he moved from Dundee to London, the Angus police sent us his folder, and I remember groaning when I read it. They even included a 'good luck' card, the kilted bastards! It would have been a damn sight quicker for them to list the crimes he hadn’t been involved in!”

“I do not remember you ever mentioning him”, Sherlock said with a frown.

“With good reason”, the policeman went on. “This was one time when the Fates were kind to us poor coppers, at least to start with. The day he came South, there was that major accident at Shap, blocking the West Coast line in the Lakes. He took the Midland route via Settle instead, and it was on a train there that he met a young lady, a Miss Gladys Welsh. Seems there is such a thing as love at first sight, for they were married as soon as the three weeks were up.”

“Did he not have to register in a London parish first?” I asked, surprised.

“He had come south because he had inherited a small house in the Minories from a distant cousin”, Henriksen explained. “The banns were published there the day after he arrived, and they were married there too. But it all ended bad. She became pregnant but the baby was born a month early, and she died in childbirth. The child, named for her mother, almost followed her out of this world, but the hospital staff pulled her through. For a couple of years Branson kept his nose clean, but then a cousin of his moved from Cheshire to just outside London and she took the child in for him from time to time, so he could turn back to his old life.”

“Nothing that you consulted me on?” Sherlock asked.

“It was all fairly minor until last year”, Henriksen said. “Then he was involved in the Barton Street Bank Robbery; talk about going from minor to major! The gang got away with thousands but one of them turned informer, and we had enough to nail Branson.”

“What went wrong?” I asked.

“Branson had gone to live in small house in Buckinghamshire, for the child's health, or so he claimed. We arrested him all right, but whilst he was in custody one of the other gang members got to him. He was stabbed in the neck and bled to death. The other guys might know where he hid the loot, but they are all in for twenty at least.”

Sherlock looked at him quizzically.

“This all took place last year”, he observed. “Yet you have only just been given this case?”

Henriksen blushed.

“The Donald is retiring”, he admitted, “and I'm one of four applying for the post. I've got a better chance than two of the others, but the third, Henry Cable, is the nephew of Chief-Inspector Cable. This is his way of scuppering my chances. When I fail, his boy is bound to be chosen.”

“When does the Board make the decision?” Sherlock asked.

“Friday week”, our friend said.

“Then we have ten days to find the money.”

For the first time that morning, Henriksen actually looked hopeful. It did not last.

“I should tell you, we have next to no clues”, he said, his face falling again. “We searched Branson’s house in Amersham - and his old London house for that matter - from top to bottom. Absolutely nothing! I even had to go through the poor girl's things, which I hated!”

Sherlock thought for a while.

“Is there a way to see the house without upsetting the child?” he asked. 

Henriksen nodded.

“Fortunately she's in the county hospital with some germ or other this week”, he said. “The cousin who came down to London is taking her in, name of Mrs. Arlesburgh. Married to a bank manager, and lives up in Harrow, and she's sorting the cottage sale through an estate agent in her area, and I know he is assessing the place some time this week. I think the girl comes out either Saturday or Sunday, and Mrs. A. has said she's taking her straight to her place in Harrow, rather than subjecting her to the house again. So any day next week will be fine.”

“We had better choose Monday, then”, Sherlock said. “That still leaves us some time before your big day.”

+~+~+

I was surprised when, two days later, Sherlock asked if I would accompany him to interview the aforementioned Mrs. Arlesburgh, the relation to whom the well-being of young Miss Gladys Branson was now entrusted. I was initially amazed that the lady in question had agreed to such a thing, though on reflection I should not have been. Sherlock could contrive to charm the female persuasion even through the medium of the modern telegraph machine!

The following day we took a cab to Euston, and after a short journey arrived at Harrow & Wealdstone station, where a second cab took us into town and deposited us outside “The Blue Boy”. I hardly needed to ask which of the patrons was our client; a lady dressed in mourning clothes sat stiffly upright at one of the tables, a cup of tea before her. Sherlock walked up to her and bowed.

“Mrs. Arlesburgh?” he asked politely. “I am Mr. Sherlock Holmes, and this is my friend and colleague, Doctor John Watson. Thank you for agreeing to spare us some of your valuable time this fine day.”

And heavens to Betsy, the woman actually _simpered_ at him! Over fifty, married and in mourning clothes to boot, yet she was looking at him like he was the Second Coming. Honestly, I could not take him anywhere!

(Contrary to what a certain someone later claimed, I did _not_ snort indignantly at that point. It was just a cough. And he could stop with the judgmental look as well!)

We ordered two more coffees and some cakes - Sherlock was kind enough to request pie for me, bless him! - and he got straight to the point.

“First, I would like to reassure you that my friend Sergeant Henriksen and myself are making every effort to avoid causing your new charge any distress at all”, he said sombrely. “ _Her_ welfare comes first and foremost in all this, that I promise.”

She seemed to relax a little at that.

“You are clearly an upstanding citizen”, Sherlock said, “so I feel no scruples about discussing certain elements of the case concerning your cousin’s recent activities with you. As I am sure that you know, he was involved in the theft of a large sum of money. We are talking some tens of thousands of pounds. Two men went to jail for the crime, and the third, who murdered him, has been rightly hung, but the money remains out there somewhere. The two men inside deny any knowledge of its whereabouts, and it will be many years before we can know if they are speaking the truth; of course we can hardly follow them twenty four hours a day when they do get out if they are lying. If the money is not located, then there is every prospect that one or both those men will be able to secure it, which we do not want at all.”

“And I suppose that the bank is employing you to track down the money?” she asked, a little harshly.

“No”, he said, to her evident surprise. “Sergeant Henriksen is a friend of mine, and I am helping him solely because of that. I myself shall receive no remuneration for my humble efforts in this case in any way, shape or form. Indeed, I think it only fair to tell you, Mrs. Arlesburgh, that should I locate that money, I shall return it to the bank. However, I shall demand that a substantial amount is set aside for the use of Miss Branson.”

“Sir!” she protested.

“Not as an inheritance”, he went on. “I have to say that it is exceptionally kind-hearted of you to take on such a responsibility for a distant relation. However, even with your husband’s help, raising a child is an expensive business. That money, if I can find it, would be for you to use as you see fit until she is twenty-one, and for her thereafter.”

Mrs. Arlesburgh nodded, and seemed to think for a while before speaking.

“There is very little that I can tell you, Mr. Holmes”, she said. “I usually left Nicholas and Gladys alone when I was around, so he could have his time with her. Despite his... 'activities', he was a good man with her, and never happier than when she reached some new milestone in her life. I have read the good doctor's books," (I blushed at this point) “and I know how the smallest things can reveal the truth to you. There is one matter that I did not like to bother Sergeant Henriksen with, but perhaps you can make something out of it.”

“Please go on”, Sherlock said.

“Nicholas always liked to sing nursery rhymes to her, when he put Gladys to bed”, she said. “He really had the most terrible voice, but she loved it nonetheless. I only thought of this after his death, but the more I thought about it, the stranger it seemed. You see, before the robbery, he would recite different rhymes with her each time; she was too young to have favourites. But after the robbery, it was always the same rhyme, right up until the day that he was arrested.”

“Which rhyme?” I asked, sitting forward.

“The one about the crooked man with the crooked house”, she said. “I asked him once why it had suddenly become such a favourite of hers, but he would not tell me.”

+~+~+

Saturday found Sherlock poring over a map I had not seen before. It turned out to be one of the area around Amersham, the town on the edge of which the late Mr. Nicholas Branson had purchased his cottage. I was surprised to see a pair of compasses next to the map, and what looked like a large black circle drawn on it. My friend looked up at me and smiled one of those gummy smiles of his.

“I hope that you have a pair of good walking-boots”, he said.

“Pardon?” I said, confused. He gestured to the circle on the map. 

“At least eight miles of good Buckinghamshire air”, he said, “and probably more since we shall be prevented from walking through people’s back gardens for some inexplicable reason. We have at least ten possible places to examine.”

“Examine for what?” I asked.

“Stiles.”

I looked at him, now completely confused. He chuckled.

“’He found a crooked sixpence, upon a crooked stile’?” he quoted. 

“Of course!” I exclaimed. “The rhyme!”

“Making the reasonable assumption that the stile would be on a field border, there are at least ten possibilities”, he said. “We shall need to examine each closely, as we have no idea exactly what form this ‘sixpence’ will take.”

“Could not Henriksen help us, with some of his men?” I asked. Sherlock shook his head.

“If he is to benefit from this, then we can hardly be in the same area looking for clues”, he said. “I doubt that even his superiors, and particularly the associates of the unpleasant Chief-Inspector Cable without whom the Metropolitan Police Service would be a far better-run institution, would be able to refrain from putting two and two together then. No, we must remain hidden, at least until we can present him with a finished case. Then, provided I can find the money, you will be able to add this story to your growing canon.”

The prospect pleased me. “Silver Blaze” had been exceptionally well received, and “The Adventure of The Five Orange Pips” had also had very positive reviews. I was just finishing “The Adventure of The Noble Bachelor”, the first of our three Continental stories to be published, six months after which my publishers would be allowed to include it in my latest book. 

“Of course you will find it!” I scoffed. 

He smiled at my faith in him. But then, it was totally justified.

+~+~+

On Monday, we left Baker Street early and took an underground train to the end of the line at Rickmansworth (the Metropolitan Railway's extension to our destination was then still being built), and from there took a cab to the centre of Amersham.

“I did not wish to incite local gossip by asking for us to be taken straight to the house”, Sherlock explained as we walked down the High Street. “Besides, I did warn you that we might have a lot of walking to do.”

It was a crisp, spring day, fine and with a gentle cooling breeze, and I was walking in the country with my best friend. I smiled at him.

“I am prepared!” I said.

Henriksen had given us the key to the cottage which, fortuitously, was an isolated building, so we were not seen entering. However, an hour spent searching the place proved fruitless, at least until Sherlock found something in the unlocked writing-desk. It was a children's story-book. He opened it, and grinned knowingly at me before reading aloud from it:

“'There was a crooked man, and he walked a crooked mile.  
He found a crooked sixpence upon a crooked stile.  
He bought a crooked cat, which caught a crooked mouse,  
And they all lived together in a little crooked house.'”

“Rather obliging of him to leave such a clue”, I said dubiously. My friend smiled at my cynicism.

“Remember that the book only makes sense to us because of what Mrs. Arlesburgh told us”, he reminded me. “Anyone else searching for the money would assume that it was just left there by accident.”

“We just have to find a country stile”, I said. “He even bookmarked it for you.”

“Actually the bookmark was in the story of The Owl And The Pussycat”, Sherlock said, frowning. “That concerns me, but for now we must press on. 

He nodded and we left, locking the place behind us.

+~+~+

Five hours later we were sitting in a tavern in Amersham, tired, footsore and not a single step closer to finding any money. None of the many stiles had been precisely one mile from the cottage, and a thorough examination of each had found precisely nothing. A light shower during the day had dampened my enthusiasm, and I felt exhausted. Sherlock looked across the table at me.

“I am sorry for dragging you all the way out here”, he said ruefully. “I get so carried away with my cases that I tend to overlook important things like friends.”

I smiled back at him.

“At least we tried”, I said. “Perhaps when we are safely back at 221B we can look at other possibilities?”

He looked as depressed as I felt, and that worried me. I could see some of the good work of our island holiday coming undone.

+~+~+

I needed my sleep that night, so I was somewhat surprised to be shaken awake in the small hours of the following morning by a clearly excited detective. It must have been very early, because the only thing that I could focus on was that the great detective wore teal-blue pyjamas with... oh Lord, fluffy bunny rabbits on them. I had not sniggered when I had seen him donning them the night before, and he had smiled at my not sniggering.

(Yes, I had coughed a lot).

“John!” he almost yelled. “Lord, I have been so stupid, but now I see it!”

“See what?” I asked groggily, sitting up as he sat gracelessly on my bed. 

“Why the bookmark!” he said, clearly (over-)excited by whatever discovery he had made. “When Mr. Nicholas Branson talked about a crooked mile, he was being quite literal. It wasn't a statute mile but a nautical one, which is about ten per cent larger.”

I shook my head in confusion, still trying to wake up.

“So we were looking in the wrong place, then?” I asked.

He belatedly seemed to realize that shouting excitedly at your friend in the small hours of the morning was not..... well, it just was not. 

“I am sorry”, he said, looking suddenly downcast. “As I said, I get carried away, and I forget myself, and I should not have woken you, and I am sorry, and.....”

I reached out and took his hand, much to his evident surprise. 

“I share your excitement”, I smiled, “but I think that I may share it more fully several hours from now?”

He looked abashed.

“But I am glad that you told me”, I said, swallowing a yawn. “Come back to bed.”

I winced at my own words. They sounded like we were.... well, that.

“Of course”, my friend smiled, sliding back to his place next to me. I folded myself back around him and sighed happily..

“Fluffy bunnies”, I muttered under my breath. I was sure that I hard an indignant huff, and I got what was most definitely a slight elbow for my remark. I whined in protest before succumbing to sleep.

+~+~+

I was still a little sleepy the next morning, but my friend's excitement at having corrected his original error more than made up for matters. We returned to Rickmansworth, and this time Sherlock asked the cab-driver to take us to the village of Little Missenden, just beyond the town of Amersham. From there we walked only a little way out into the country before we reached our first stile.

“I have found only three possible locations this time, all within one per cent of a nautical mile from the cottage”, Sherlock explained. “One here and one a little way north, just outside a village called Hyde Heath. If they are both fruitless, then we shall have to work our way round to the third, which is the other side of Amersham. I am afraid that there are also a further ten possible sites which are within five per cent of the required distance.”

“Then we had better get started”, I smiled.

Today, Lady Luck was with us. The stile in Little Missenden yielded nothing, but near Hyde Heath I found what I thought at first was a nail pushed into the wood of the stile. Puzzled – a nail head should surely have rusted by now – I used my knife to extract it, and nearly dropped it in my excitement.

It was a sixpence. And someone had clearly gone to a lot of trouble to hammer the exposed side, so as to hide the exposed coin markings.

“You are a genius, Watson!” Sherlock smiled. “I do not suppose you can find either a cat or a mouse whilst you are at it?”

Regrettably the stile and the ground around it yielded nothing else. Sherlock decided to return to the town and make inquiries as to whether Mr. Nicholas Branson had ever purchased any animals. He also dispatched a telegram to Mrs. Arlesburgh, asking the same question; clearly she must have been expecting it, for the answer came back before we left the town. Sadly it was negative, as were Sherlock's inquiries at the two places in town that sold cats. But we returned to Baker Street in higher spirits, feeling that we were closer to an answer even if we only had two full days left.

Henriksen had sent us over the complete file on the late Mr. Nicholas Branson, and Sherlock and I spent much of Tuesday evening reading the massive volume. It was little wonder that County Angus' police force had danced with joy at the man's departure from their turf. They were probably still partying!

+~+~+

Ironically this time it was I who woke in the middle of the night with sudden inspiration, my sleep-sodden brain deciding that two ante meridian was the perfect time to connect the dots. I was sorely tempted to wake my friend to tell him, but I knew that he needed his rest. It could wait. Besides, if I turned the light on then I would see those terrible pyjamas again, and I knew that I would not to be able to resist laughing!

I was sure that he somehow huffed in his sleep!

+~+~+

“You have an idea.”

Sherlock was staring at me across the living-room of Mr. Branson's cottage. I had been searching the place for something that I felt should be there, but palpably was not. I frowned.

“Have we searched every room?” I asked.

“Between us, we have”, he said. “But clearly you are looking for something specific. You have been on edge ever since you woke up this morning.”

“I was wondering if he had any whips”, I said.

“Only the one in his bedroom”, he answered. When I stared at him, clearly nonplussed, he went on. “He had a small collection of relics from his days at sea, in one of the bedside drawers.”

I stared at him in excitement. 

“And it included a whip?” I demanded. 

“Yes”, he said. “So what?”

I strode across the room and grabbed him by the shoulders in my excitement. He looked decidedly alarmed.

“Sherlock”, I said slowly, “the old name for the whip used on sailors was 'the cat o' nine tails'!”

We stared at each other for a moment, then he slipped my grasp – he could move like lightning when the need arose – and shot out of the room, his feet pounding heavily on the stairs as he ascended. I pursued him, but by the time I got there, he had opened the drawer and upended all of the contents onto the bed. There were three items apart from the 'cat': a carved tusk presumably from some luckless sea-creature, a small notebook and a jewellery box. Sherlock picked the tusk up whilst I examined the notebook. 

“Absolutely nothing!” I said in frustration. “Someone has torn out half the pages!”

“This is strange”, he said, looking closely at the tusk. “It has the name 'Gladys' carved into it.”

“So?” I said. “That was his wife's name, and later his daughter's.”

“Yes”, he said slowly, “but some other name has been erased or changed by it. The spacing is not quite right, and an extra letter has been rubbed out.” He squinted, trying to make out the incredibly faint marks. “After the 'G' and the 'L.... A-L-I-C.... the missing letter must be an 'E'. I wonder who Alice was before she was rubbed out?”

“Possibly a girlfriend”, I said. “Possibly even another wife, knowing what sailors are. He met his wife after finishing with the sea, remember.”

I picked up the cat, and stared hopefully at it.

“Tell me where the mouse is”, I muttered.

“If only that worked!” Sherlock smiled from behind me. 

The 'cat' did actually have nine 'tails', and I ran my hand along one of them, shuddering when I thought how they had once been used on poor sailors. It was then that I noticed it. Someone had obviously used a metal type to imprint a letter 'O' near the end. I fumbled for a moment, then examined the other ends. 

Jackpot!

“Sherlock!” I hissed. “Look!”

I showed him the cat, and we quickly jotted down the letters. In addition to the 'O', we had two 'D's, another 'O' and one each of 'G', 'S', 'N', 'C' and 'L'. 

“Only two vowels, and both 'O's?”, I observed. “GOLD CONDS? Or is one of the 'D's really an 'I', and the phrase 'gold coins'?”

Sherlock smiled that knowing smile of his, and almost ran over to the bookshelf. He fumbled for only a few moments before holding up a book in triumph, and bringing it over to me.

“'Alice's Adventures in Wonderland'?” I said in surprise.

“By that interesting author, Mr. C. L. Dodgson”, he grinned. 

“The letters!” I almost shouted.

Sherlock was flipping through the book, until he came to the picture showing the Mouse swimming away. Taped to the page was a receipt for a London jewellery store, which he read aloud.

“'Recreation of lost family heirloom necklace from fake copy; diamonds, emeralds, rubies, sapphires and topazes, plus distressing services. Sum total sixteen thousand pounds'.”

I whistled at the huge sum.

“But why did they not come forward when the case became public?” I asked. Sherlock shook his head.

“That industry functions on trust and discretion”, he said. “The shop-owner would lose valuable - if questionable – business, if it became known that he assisted the police with their inquiries.” 

He opened the jewellery box and extracted a beautiful necklace with over twenty different coloured stones in it. 

“The real jewels?” I asked, breathlessly. To my surprise, he shook his head.

“Fakes”, he said. “But they do tell me where the money is.”

+~+~+

To my immense chagrin, Sherlock would not tell me what he knew, except to say that he had scheduled a further meeting with Mrs. Arlesburgh the following day, and had dispatched a reassuring telegram to Henriksen's home. Fortunately we were going to the opera that night, and that distracted me from otherwise worrying about the case. 

The following day we met Mrs. Arlesburgh again in “The Blue Boy”. Sherlock came straight to the point.

“I now know the whereabouts of the money hidden by your cousin”, he said. “And loath though I am to say it, you were not completely honest with us, madam.”

She looked shocked at that.

“I assure you, sir, I told you everything”, she said starchily.

“Except about Mr. Nicholas Branson's small bequest to you”, Sherlock said. “The necklace that you are wearing today.”

She smiled reminiscently.

“It was something my husband purchased for me years ago, well before we could afford anything real. Twenty-four rhinestones, because I met him when I was that age. I lost the original during the move, but it was insured, so I had a replacement made. I ordered it from a jeweller friend of his in London.”

“And one time, your cousin took it in to have it repaired for you, did he not?” he said quietly.

“Yes”, she said, looking uncertainly at him. “But how did you know that?”

“Because that was after the robbery, and he had a second necklace made at the same time”, Sherlock said. “Except that necklace, for which he paid some _sixteen thousand pounds sterling_ , had real gems in it. And that necklace, madam, is what you have been wearing around your neck all this time. Sixteen thousand pounds worth of gemstones.”

She looked like she was going to faint, but rallied and quickly unclasped her necklace.

“Take it!” she urged, very clearly desperate to be rid of such an expensive thing. Sherlock took it, and pulled the jewellery case from the cottage out of his pocket, swapping the necklaces over and handing the fake one back to Mrs. Arlesburgh. She took it gratefully.

“You did not find anything else of interest?” she asked, clipping on her now cheap copy.

“Only this bent silver sixpence”, Sherlock said, showing it to her.

To the surprise of both of us, she smiled at it, then reached into her purse and produced a sealed letter.

“Nicholas told me nothing”, she said. “Except, that if ever anyone produced a bent and battered sixpence to me, I was to hand them this.”

Sherlock took the letter, opened it and read it all the way through. Then he blushed fiercely. Curious, I took it from him and read it myself:

'Dear Mr. Holmes,  
The fact you're reading this says two things, don't it? First, I'm paying for my crimes, and second, you've found the loot. I knew you were the only guy in London I could trust to do right by young Gladys. Mary-Anne is a good stick, and her husband is all right I suppose, but a girl with that much money needs a rich and powerful man keeping a distant eye on her in this day and age, at least until she can look after herself. I've read all the stories your doctor friend writes about you both, and I know I can trust you. The cops might follow the law, but you follows justice.  
All the best from Hell.  
Nick Branson (deceased)'

I stared at Sherlock.

“He knew”, I said slowly. My friend nodded, and handed a small card to Mrs. Arlesburgh.

“Any time either you or young Gladys need me”, he said. “Any time, just call.”

+~+~+

In our next case, someone is cutting a swathe of death and destruction through a noble family – will Sherlock save the last target?


End file.
